A New Way of Grieving

I’ve lost people before, of course. To death and to the growing apart that happens with friends or past lovers. I’ve mourned in my own ways. The normal ways: crying, eating junk food, punching pillows and writing out the pain.

But when I began my own death, I grieved in a new way. Cleaning out.

I started out with the biggest hurdle, which was the books. Of course, what else could it be? I went into it with a plan. “I absolutely can’t get rid of those Lucky Peach issues. They’re not even made any more! And I can’t get rid of these. Or these. I’ll stick with cleaning out only the novels.”

Lucky Peach did not make the cut. Neither did some of the others I said had to stay. The more I cleaned out, the easier it was. In fact, it got so easy I’m about to re-do the initial ones to make sure there aren’t any extra I can add to the goodbye pile. (There most definitely will be.)

I didn’t want to stop. I did the books, the puzzles, even some nail polish. Why not? Why not also include purses or clothes? Why not? I told myself I had caught the cleaning bug, and I was just riding it out.

It occurred to me on day two that maybe I was mourning the impending loss. Then I realized I was actually grieving for more than that. I was grieving the death of myself. Each thing was from a different time in my life.

The cookbooks: when baking was my comfort, as it has been off and on through my life.

The first time I bought from an online used bookstore, a weekend I happened to be spending in the early days of a relationship when we would go back and forth to each other’s houses.

My food writing phase which was basically just a cookbook obsession part two.

Instruction books for trinkets and any number of items that I knew I’d never actually make.

Who the hell needs this many books?

I was angry. I went to my phone. These stupid wishlists. So many years sitting in the digital space and I knew damn well I’d never buy them. I knew even if I added every single thing to my cart and checked out, they wouldn’t make me happy. I felt the burden of things weighing me down, crushing me under paper and cardboard, ink and shipping boxes. A quick hit of dopamine before it went away, and I was on the hunt for the next fix.

The hope of things that never happened or that were long since passed. I fantasized about a tornado coming down and sucking up only the extra items but leaving the house and the living safe. Let me start again with some clothes, my Kindle and laptop. A journal. A sketchbook. A few artbooks. Only my very favorite ones. There aren’t many. I don’t need anything else.

Note: I started writing this a couple of months ago when I first began the process of shedding and changing. I’ve cleaned out an alarming number of books, and I find the urge to add new ones is greatly diminished. I find I don’t miss them. I find I’m liking myself a little more each day. Each day, it hurts a little less.

Sara Myriad